


Leverage and Balance, Stress and Strain

by viklikesfic (v_angelique)



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Bukkake, Hurt/Comfort, Kink, Kink Meme, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-31
Updated: 2010-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-07 01:17:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/59814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/v_angelique/pseuds/viklikesfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chekov needs something after the Narada incident.  Bukkake ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leverage and Balance, Stress and Strain

In the time between the _Narada_ incident and the start of their five-year mission, everyone needs to unwind and process in their own way. It's unclear exactly how word got around that Chekov's idea of unwinding was _this_, but Spock is highly organized and somehow there's a crew of five willing participants waiting in his one-room flat in San Francisco one night, informed and with their game faces on. Chekov feels a surge of _gratitude_, followed by anxiety, but a gentle pressure on the back of his neck and gravity is pulling him to his knees. 

"Should've known." Kirk speaks first, his tone low and promising, as he circles the navigator, a hand reaching out, fingertips brushing Chekov's neck. "You need it, ensign. You're eager for it, aren't you?"

"Yes, keptin," Chekov whispers, his breathing starting to deepen, his hands trembling at his sides. 

"Get comfortable," Kirk says, pushing on Chekov's shoulder until he lowers himself to sit on his heels. "I want to watch you while I beat off."

Chekov blushes a rosy pink, and someone tugs up at the bottom of his shirt from behind. He lifts his arms willingly and the shirt comes over his head, displaying a lean, pale chest.

"Did you think about this at home, when you were all snuggled under the covers? Did you imagine a group of men shooting on your face, in your hair?" A new voice from behind his back, and Chekov's breath catches.

"Yes, Hikaru," he whispers, cheeks flushed with shame. A little admonishing grunt from McCoy, and Chekov knows the doctor's trying not to think about how old Chekov was, exactly, back in Russia, thinking those naughty things. It's another layer of shame, and Chekov's cock pops out eagerly when Kirk bends down to tug the fly open.

"Slut," the captain whispers against his mouth. Chekov tilts his head up but Kirk moves away, a familiar smirk on his lips as he reaches into his own fly and pulls his cock out, tugging leisurely at it. 

"I knew another boy like you, once," Admiral Pike says with a little smile, reaching into his lap and pulling his dick out as Chekov watches. It's _big_, he's the biggest of the three Chekov can see right now, and he watches with a singular fascination as Pike rubs at it with one wrinkled thumb, no regard for the cold metal of the ring on his finger. "He loved the taste of come. Used to ask me to do it on his mouth, closed, so he could rub it together on his lips and lick it from his chin. He liked me to come on his face, too, rub it into his skin."

"Like fucking moisturiser lotion," Kirk says with a little strained laugh. His hand's moving faster now, and Chekov can see the tension of arousal on his face.

"Is that what you like, Pavel? The way it feels?" Hikaru's voice is calm, even, in contrast to Kirk's. Chekov wonders if he even has his hand on his cock at all, and there's something incredibly erotic about hearing the voice without seeing the face. "Or do you like knowing that we're watching you? Being marked as a slut for us. For any men who'd have you."

Chekov lets out a little puppy-like whimper at that idea, and his cock twitches visibly. Doctor McCoy laughs.

"That's cute. Maybe next time we'll make it a real gang-bang, have you over that coffee table. Stuff up your throat and your ass and you'll look like a pig on a spit, all dressed up and ready for the dinner table." McCoy's drawl is thick and knowing, his lips curved into a smile. Chekov blushes and lowers his eyes.

"Or we could make you hold a little plate," Kirk suggests, bouncing off his friend's idea. "Have you suck us all off and then we'd come on the plate, and you'd watch and stick your tongue out for it like a filthy slut -" his breath hitches, again, and Chekov watches as the angry red of his cock deepens - "and then we'd make you lap it all up at the end, like a cat, maybe make you rub your face all in it.""Enough with the animal metaphors, Jim," Pike inserts with a little roll of his eyes. "You would like to just stick your face in it though, wouldn't you Pavel? You'd drink semen warm from a glass if it were an option."

Another whimper, and his hips thrust against air. Pike laughs.

"Yeah, the boy likes that. You want it everywhere, in your hair, coating your eyelids. You'd let twenty men come in your face, until we couldn't see who it was under there. And then we'd parade you around naked on the Academy grounds, let everyone see, everyone take turns."

Chekov reaches for his aching cock but his hand isn't halfway there before there's a sudden sharp grip, wrenching it behind his back. Spock. The Vulcan's been silent through all this, but the strength of his hands on Chekov's wrists speak volumes, and then there's the slide of a cock between his cupped hands and he groans aloud, eyes falling shut for a minute, one hand cupping around the thick base. The texture of the skin's a little different from a human's, and there's no curly hair against his hand, but the differences aren't enough to be disconcerting. Honestly, the fact that Spock's _thrusting_ into Chekov's fist, the head of his cock bumping against the place where Chekov's ass starts to divide, has him blushing fiercely and more turned on than ever. And then he realises that Hikaru can see everything, and that the other three are watching him, Spock kneeling behind him, that impassive look on the Vulcan's face, Chekov flushed white and pink all over, cock standing up full and thick from their humiliating words. He moans long and low, and he just doesn't_care_ anymore, doesn't have the decency to be embarrassed as Jim steps up and takes the first turn, groaning as he shoots over Chekov's chin, come dripping and pooling in the hollow at the base of his neck, and aims up onto his parted lips. 

By the time Jim finishes, Chekov's hips are thrusting erratically, and he has this mental image of himself as series of lines, the pivot point at his shoulders as his arms stay perfectly straight, his hands just a vessel for Spock's thrusts, his torso a wild, unrestrained thing ruled by unchecked desire. He holds onto geometry and physics as McCoy gives him an almost cruel little smile, spurts of come aimed at the hairline, following trails down Chekov's forehead, over the bridge of his nose. It's science that comforts him as he thinks of the curvature of his face, the friction coefficient of skin, gravity, the - his thoughts break off as he considers the viscosity of semen, and it's a deep, emotional cry that leaves his lips as science deserts him. He closes his eyes and a few drops collect on his eyelids. He blinks a few times, feeling his lashes clump together as if he were wearing mascara. There's a break where Chekov feels the captain's come cool and dry on his skin, and then it's Hikaru's turn, aiming for his hair, for the side of his face, his cheek. He never sees his best friend in all of this, only hears the pleased groans and feels the thick, warm liquid on his skin. It's so hot he has to grit his teeth to keep from coming, the only stimulation the clench of his thighs, and the hot embarrassed rush he feels when he tries to move his forearm and finds it still blocked by an unyielding Vulcan grip.Pike rolls closer for his turn, and Chekov kneels up, Spock moving with him, to rest his chin on the Admiral's knees. The arc of Pike's semen catches him in the hair, the forehead, and he moves up to get more on his mouth, his cheeks, his jaw. Pike bestows on him a smile that makes Chekov light up with the sense of praise from someone he admires so much, and a hand ruffles the clean portion of his hair before Chekov sits back again, gasping as he feels the warm pool of come in his hands, on the insides of his wrists. Spock's lips ghost over his ear and his eyes fall shut. Spock is silent through his orgasm, and Chekov wonders if he should say something, now that it's over, but then Spock is lifting Chekov's own sticky palms to his face, smearing them over the drying come already left there, and Chekov gasps a little swallowed cry as he suddenly tightens every muscle he has and comes all over Admiral Pike's boots. 

Chekov is never opening his eyes again. Never. Ever.

A gentle hand at the back of his neck guides him down, and he's absurdly grateful for the guidance, tongue darting out to lap at his own semen, careful not to touch with his face, not to smear Spock's or anyone else's come on the leather. When it's done, there are tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, tears of relief and release, of catharsis. He holds his palm to his nose and breathes in deeply, absorbing the foreign scent, lapping at the foreign taste. The son of the woman he let die. He sniffles and feels strong arms around his waist, a warm washcloth at his face. He slumps and lets them care for him, whimpers at the feather's brush of fingertips at his psi points, gentle pressure on newly-clean skin. Renewal. Realignment. Spock draws in a long, deep breath, and Chekov closes his eyes as he feels the unique sensation of a meld, his world going a little hazy and disoriented. That strong arm still holds him up, holds him close. 

"I forgive you," Spock whispers as the back of his hand trails down Chekov's cheek, and he sobs again but now it feels good to cry. He turns and wraps his arms around Spock, and he presses his face to the Vulcan's chest. That night, they all cradle and hold him and tell him how much they respect and admire him, how impressed they were by his performance on the mission and how happy they are to have him on the crew. This is how Chekov unwinds and processes, and in the final analysis it is exactly what he needs.

  



End file.
